He phoned that night around eight.
“He’s slipped the grid.”
“You’ll get him.”
“I
“What did the neighbors tell you?”
“They’re not the type to notice. Or to share insights with cops.”
“What about the gas station?”
“No one’s laid eyes on the guy since Wednesday.”
The day Ryan interrogated him. I didn’t say it.
“I faxed Keith/O’Keefe’s mug shot over to Trois Rivieres. They ran it out to the camp near La Tuque where Adamski was staying when he had his fatal boating accident in 2000. It’s the same guy.
“No shit.”
“They’re the outfit that arranged Bud Keith’s bear hunt during his sabbatical from kitchen duty at the auberge.”
“Good work, Detective.”
Ryan snorted in self-derision. “Except for the part where I let the bastard walk away without so much as a backward glance.”
“He won’t get far.”
“He disappeared in 2000 and didn’t resurface until two years ago. We have no friggin’ idea where the prick was all that time.”
Good point. I didn’t say that, either.
“You confirmed that Adamski’s body was never found?”
“Yeah.” Ryan sounded exhausted. “Apparently he went out on the lake early one morning, alone. They found the boat belly-up, Adamski wasn’t in it. They dragged the lake on and off for a week, found his wallet, hat, his fishing gear. No body.”
“The locals didn’t find that odd?”
“Apparently it’s happened before. This lake’s ninety feet deep in places.”
Sudden flash of the Lac Saint-Jean vics abandoned in my lab. I felt my own stab of guilt. Quentin Jacqueme had been waiting forty years for an answer concerning his brother-in-law Achille and the rest of the Gouvrard family.
Monday. First thing. No distractions.
“-gotta tell you. I’m beat.”
I pictured Ryan doing that hair-rake thing with his hand. I imagined the clumps shooting in all directions.
I opened my lips.
Hesitated.
What the hell?
“Would you like to come over?”
“Thanks, Tempe. Really. But I promised Lily I’d pick her up early tomorrow. I can’t screw up. I’d better call it a day.”
“I understand.” I didn’t.
“You know where I’d rather be. It’s just … Please. Ask me again?”
“Sure.” My chest burned. I needed to get off the phone.
Birdie and I watched
Sunday was a day to make Alexander Graham Bell proud. Or rich.
Harry called first, as I was reading the
I described my run-in with the ham salad.
Harry asked if I’d IDed the bastard who’d smeared my name with Edward Allen Jurmain. I told her I hadn’t. She suggested modification of that party’s genitalia, then asked how things were going with Ryan. To avoid the subject, I talked about the acid atmosphere at the lab, described Briel’s television performance, and recounted my conversation with Santangelo.
Harry ordered me to take the day off, citing some cockamamie theory about germs and stress and karma and longevity. I agreed. Vaguely.
Harry pressed, made me promise. Eventually, I did. I knew my sister. Il Duce would call repeatedly to be sure I was home.
Katy phoned not long after Harry. She was dating a musician named Smooth. Smooth, thirty-two, was from Pittsburgh and played in a band called Polar Hard-on. Needless to say, my daughter’s news caused a setback in my sister’s karmic relaxation regimen.
But I did take things easy. Wrote reports. Plowed through e-mail. Read. Played with my cat.
Took Harry’s calls, reassured her that I hadn’t slipped house arrest.
All the while, I awaited news of Adamski’s capture.
Chris Corcoran rang around four.
Planting a wire on the Stateville inmate had paid off. The cellmate, one Antoine “Pooter” Brown, had provided enough detail to hang himself for Laszlo Tot’s murder. In exchange for consideration in sentencing, Pooter had admitted to being present at Lassie’s killing, and had agreed to roll on his partner.
He and a genius calling himself Slappy spotted Laszlo in a video arcade. They followed him and tried to hijack his car. Laszlo fought back.
Slappy knifed Lassie. Pooter had watched, helpless to stop the attack. Uh- huh.
Following the stabbing, they’d emptied Laszlo’s pockets and stuffed him into his own car trunk. They’d then driven aimlessly, debating their next move. Being from Thornton, Pooter thought of the quarry.
After dumping Laszlo’s body, they’d ditched his car in a suburban mall and taken a commuter train back to the city. On Laszlo’s dime.
When arrested, Slappy fingered Pooter as the blade man. Very original.
Ryan called at six. His mood wasn’t exactly jubilant, but it was a million miles up from the night before.
“Break out the party hats.”
“You got him?”
“We may have picked up his trail.”
“Wowzer!”
“Did you really say that?”
“Where was he?”
“At approximately four p.m. Thursday a man fitting Adamski’s description rented a Hyundai Accent from a Budget agency on Boulevard Decarie. You’ll never guess the gentleman’s name.”
“Miller Moosehead.”
“Good one. Alliterative. But no. Lucky Labatt.”
“Lucky?”
“Lucky Lager.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Jack Nicholson drank it in
“Renting a car requires a license, proof of insurance. Could Adamski come up with a new identity so fast?”
